


The Man in the Mirror

by CustardBattle



Category: Dick Figures
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Blood Magic, Demonic Possession, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, F/M, M/M, Multi, Possession, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23490820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CustardBattle/pseuds/CustardBattle
Summary: What could be better than an unstoppable depressive spiral? Someone to join you, of course! Doesn't matter if that someone is the bottle you're using to hide from your thoughts, or the strange dead man asking for blood through the other side of the vanity.
Relationships: Blue/Red (Dick Figures)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: depression, alcohol abuse, cutting, drugs, sex, gore, and suicidal thoughts
> 
> I will show these things in graphic detail. Be warned. This is not a fluff piece.
> 
> Inspired by The Dragon Prince and The BeetleJuice Musical, as well as my inability to not write whatever trash comes into my head. Hah

The door slammed behind him, and he tried not to let his entire world fall apart.

He put in a frozen pizza, and ate it in front of the TV. He couldn’t’ve told you what was on it. 

He took a shower, his body following the rote motions of scrubbing, the foam spinning before disappearing down the drain.

He went to bed at seven, flicking off his alarm. He half-expected to be up all night, pondering the futility of his existence, but it didn't happen that way. His body was heavy. He laid down and fell asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

He hadn’t planned on going to work, or anywhere, really, but even without his alarm, he woke at 6:30 as usual. There had to be some comfort in ritual. He dressed, turned on the coffee pot, and padded to the bathroom.

He brushed his teeth. Even with the enormous sleep, his eyes were red and dry. He reached for his meds, another habit in his long list of rituals. When he slid the drawer open, the sight of a single pink toothbrush made him slam it closed. He withdrew his hand, breathing hard, and felt a deep pit of shame when a couple tears escaped the corners of his eyes.

_Pull it together, you piece of shit. This is your own damn fault._

He swiped them away with a grunt. Then washed his face with cold water.

He stepped out of the bathroom, not bothering to shower. It wouldn’t make him feel any less dirty. 

Work came and went. Drive there, do your shit, drive home. Had he gotten anything done? He couldn’t tell you. He’d sat at his desk, staring at the meticulous excel spreadsheet. There had been numbers, and categories, and reports due within the week. Did he do things with the number? It was all a blur.

He got home, threw another frozen pizza in the oven. He hadn’t handed in that report, but all that mattered to him was going to bed as soon as possible. He ate the pizza, guzzling a few beers between bites, and managed to stay up until 8.

By the third day he was out of pizzas. Other than a year-old tub of freezer-burnt ice cream and a package of peas he used as an ice pack, there was nothing to eat. There was, however, a half bottle of shitty whiskey he’d bought to make jack and cokes ages ago. 

Guess it would have to do. He lazed on the couch for a few hours. Every time he took a swallow, he regretted it, wincing as it burned all the way down. Somehow, that didn’t deter him. By 9pm, he was drunk enough that the entire room swam, and he had to keep a hand on the wall in his stumble to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, puked, then brushed his teeth again. 

He woke up at 2am to puke again. At 5 he waddled to piss, still drunk but mostly just hungover. He slammed a glass of water, briefly considered throwing up again, but went back to bed. He’d received an email from his boss, wondering if he needed an extension for his report. He deleted the email, rolling over. The bottle was still on his bedside table, cap nowhere to be found.

He threw up his water a few times after 7. Fuck. He wasn't drunk enough anymore. He took a gravol, settling his stomach with the rest of the whiskey. At 9:00 his phone lit up with a text from his supervisor. He flicked the screen off, not bothering to read it. Instead, he grabbed his wallet and stalked down to the 24 hour liquor store. 

He’d always complained about living in such a shitty area. His apartment had come with a four-lock setup already installed on the doors. Now, though, he was a little grateful. He didn’t have to drive anywhere, drunk out of his mind.

He supposed he had to look trashy: He hadn’t showered in a few days, was buying more bottom shelf despite his liver still working through the last batch. The cashier barely looked at him ringing everything through.

_Guess I’m not an uncommon sight._

Not wanting another puke-fest, he ordered thai from the sketchy place down the block. Beer probably would have been better paired, but there was no denying how 

The liquor made him feel calm. Make no mistake, he still felt like rotting garbage, but at least he could stew in his own filth without being worried about getting fired, which was bound to happen soon. The booze gave him a sort of zen acceptance, and he could just sit back and watch his undignified ride off the rails with glassy eyes.

By day five, he had accumulated 24 missed calls. Half from his parents, who’d no doubt heard of his breakup through the rumour mill. The other half was a split into thirds between his work, a few friends, and the very reason he was crawling into a bottle.

By day 14, he got a cheque in the mail, indicating his last pay stub. He ordered italian that night, a celebration to his short-lived career.

By day 15, he broke down, finally feeling the crushing sorrow he should've felt on day one. He stumbled into the shower and sank to his knees, gasping out quiet, desperate sobs. Long after the water had run cold, he dried himself off and continued his was through a bottle. The heaviness was oppressive, but he'd cried out most of the sadness. What remained was a dark, magnetic emptiness. He drank, and it shrank a little, so he drank some more.

By day 16, he couldn’t stand the sight of his own apartment, could suddenly smell his own unwashed bed sheets, the garbage that hadn’t been taken out, the permanent stink of liquor that followed him like a cartoonish cloud. He kicked open his front door, chucked the garbage in the dumpster on his way, and headed off.

At least outside, he could train his thoughts on the pavement beneath him or the parts of the city he’d never seen on foot. Any distraction was welcome, especially from the guilt that was threatening to eat him alive. He shoved his hands in his pockets. Judging by the black sky and few cars on the street, it had to be past midnight. He kept walking. The streets turned from grungy shops and ancient apartments to newly-built townhouses, and posh specialty shops. Most everything had closed, but being out had given him an energy he hadn't felt in weeks. He walked through the winding district, eventually coming to the river that sliced the city in half.

The fences along the bridge had collections of locks snapped on the chain links. People liked to make wishes, lock on their hopes, and chuck the keys into the waters below. The whole practice didn't strike him as particularly good for the environment, but maybe that was just his pessimism talking. Just as he put foot on the sidewalk, a few raindrops hit. He put up his hand, catching a few in his palm. 

The rain began to splatter down, illuminated by street lamps. He walked on. He pulled up his hood and winced as a few huge trucks blew past him, barreling down the bridge. The rain picked up.

_Pretty thematic,_ he thought, and continued to the middle. Under a sheltered spot, tourists could sit on benches or take pictures at the view beyond the water. He hid from the rain there, leaning against the waist-height fence, his fingers looping through the cold linked metal.

He looked at the darkness beneath him. He imagined how far down it was. 60, maybe 70 feet? How many stories was that? He was reminded of questions he’d done studying for physics. Pages and pages of practice questions, enough to fill entire notebooks to the brim with number, formulas. Ideas of terminal velocity, air resistance, momentum, acceleration due to gravity. The force compression of water.

He blinked, feeling dizzy. 

60 or 70 feet.

He rushed home, the rain starting to soak through his outerwear. He peeled off his clothes, practically running to the shower. He stayed under the spray for far too long, resting his forehead on the stylish bathroom tiles. At this angle he was able to watch the droplets slide downwards.

60 or 70 feet.

By the next day, he’d forgotten what day it was.

He jumped out of bed despite his hangover. Those had almost become as familiar as breathing.

He stripped his sheets, gathered up the piles of clothes that had slowly become mountains on his bedroom floor. Started a load in the washing machine, another in the dishwasher. He threw out the remaining garbage, washed and gathered the impressive amounts of empties laying around his apartment. He cracked open a beer, still unsettled. 

If he couldn’t distract himself inside, he could start outside. But first, he finished off the beer, feeling satisfied at the aggressive clatter when he dropped it in the blue bin.

He went to the grocery, buying authentic, actual, human food. Food with less than 27 ingredients, no less. Ones that he could _pronounce_. He stopped by the dollar store, too, grabbing as many cardboard boxes as he could manage.

Once home, he threw groceries in the fridge, starting some water on the stove. Folding the boxes was trickier than expected, but he was determined. With a box on his hip, he ransacked the apartment, tearing through drawers, throwing open cupboards, letting old mugs and gifted glasses shatter when he chucked them into their respective boxes. In went her toothbrush, forgotten socks, discarded hair ties, a teal green phone charger, and a teddy bear from Valentine’s Day. 

He went through another beer, as well as the clothes hanging in his dusty dresser. Three boxes of faded t-shirts, a few pairs of worn heels, and one of the dresses that held so many happy memories that it was a miracle he didn’t puke then and there.

The boxes congregated in his entrance hall.

Logically, he knew that he should return them to her, or at the very least donate the clothes. But in all honesty, he was far more likely to douse the whole thing in gasoline and set it ablaze.

After a few hours, he was panting. He chugged the last of his beer, adding it to the carnage in his recycling bin. He briefly debated running to the liquor store again, being halfway through one of his six packs.

The spare bedroom was pretty much empty now, save for her old nightstand, and an ikea lamp in the corner. The most egregious of the furniture, however, was the ancient vanity. She’d inherited it from her great aunt, or something along those lines. The top had been cleared off, and it was odd to see the polished wood clear of sponges, brushes, and over-pigmented palettes. 

He wanted it out, stained wood, gilded accents and all.

She hadn’t been able to lift it herself, and they’d hired a few movers to place it. Even after a few beers, he knew he couldn’t manage it without help.

He tried to push the thing across the room, but it weighed a thousand and one pounds. He stood back, thinking.

He left and returned with a screwdriver. If he couldn’t lift it, or push it, he could at the very least take it apart. He knew logically that it wasn’t his, and that she’d eventually come back and ask for it. Forgive him if he wasn’t feeling very generous. Her presence had become a thick reminder, and seeing any of her shit made him consider bashing his head against the wall. 

Bending into an awkward position, he reached around the thing, feeling a few screws. That was enough. He returned with a screwdriver from the toolbox above his fridge, and did his best to position the tool. 

Maybe he was too drunk, maybe it was the aged metal, maybe it was a trick of the dresser itself, taunting him and his misery. Whatever it was, the screwdriver snapped, driving his hand into the detailed frame. He drew his hand back, dropping the handle to bounce soundlessly on the plush carpet.

_Shit!_

He stuck his stinging finger in his mouth, and hissed when he popped it out. The cut wasn’t deep, but it had taken him by surprise. A drop of blood gathered, and he sighed. The mirror would have to wait. He moved to the kitchen, throwing a couple cupboards open in search of a bandaid. 

He twisted his thumb back and forth. He could still feel the cut’s sting under the bandage. Maybe he should've disinfected it.

The distraction let his body catch up with him. He was starving, tired, and sapped of all motivation.

_Guess that room’s going to have to wait until tomorrow._

He closed its door, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. The latch closed, and he stalked away. The boxes taunted him from his floor, and he glared at them.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled. Being boxes, they didn’t respond.

On day 21, he fell asleep, pleasantly boozed, feeling the itch and tingle of where he’d drawn blood. On day 21, something awoke in the mirror, and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

He took the clothes to the thrift store, and the books to the local library. The volunteers smiled and glowed at his generous donations. 

“This is so nice,” an old lady cooed, stroking one of the many velvet dresses left in his closet. 

_ It was either this or the furnace _ , he thought to himself. He smiled and said nothing. They gave him a flyer for 20% off on his next visit to the store. 

“Thanks,” he said, while they waved goodbye. Once he was around the corner, he dropped it in the trash.

Walking down Main street, a sudden exhaustion settled on his shoulders. He stopped at the crosswalk, giving the button a press. A car cut into a lane without signalling, and the person behind them honked in annoyance. They both sped off. Traffic drove by, obnoxious and fast and endless. Briefly, he pondered the pros and cons of stepping into the path of a speeding trailer, but the light changed, and the thought was gone.

The pawn shop took the jewelry, or what little was left, anyways. She’d probably have something to say about her silver and gold being sold to the greasy pawner next door, but she’d also had the misfortune of dating him, so really that was on her.

The antique store bought his furniture. His lamps, bookshelf, stools, the fancy towel rack, his kitchen table, the chairs, the desk, all his stupid decorative pots went in the delivery truck. They offered to sell it as consignment, but he refused. They paid him 900 bucks for the whole lot, and he left the store feeling lighter than he had in weeks. His two TVs went for 50 each.

He tore down an eviction notice on his way through the door. The air hung heavy and still. He chucked the envelope of cash on the counter, and cracked open another beer. He’d kept the couches, beds, and the coffee table. It had come with the place, and as much as he wanted that extra few hundred, he couldn’t screw the old man like that.

He looked down at the empty can. He got another.

The only thing in the house left to sell was his kitchenware. Honestly, it hardly felt worth the effort. Oh. There was that heavy vanity in the spare bedroom. It could stay there. Moving it sounded like work he didn’t want to bother with.

The next day he knocked on his landlord’s door. The old fart opened the door, obviously less than pleased to see him. Before he could chew him out for missed rent, he shoved the envelope into the man’s shaking fingers.

“Last three months, plus the next two. Consider the rest interest.”

He didn’t wait for a response. His cards were maxed, his bank drained. Two hundred dollars remained in his pocket; There was only one thing left to do.

It took him half a bottle of Henny to work up the courage, but three days later he had it. Jesus, that was easier than he’d expected. Even the ammunition had been handed to him over the goddamn counter when he’d asked for it. It felt heavy in the shopping bag. What a fucking country. 

He bought two packs of smokes and some mid-shelf on his way back home. 

He lit up a smoke as soon as he walked through the door. His first pull had him choking. Fuck, why did people like these? He tried another puff, but the smoke burned all the way down. It was equally awful as the first. Giving up, he stubbed the thing out on the kitchen counter. At least he had liquor. 

He was ready a few hours later. His bedroom had carpet, so he closed that door. There was something distasteful about dying in a bathroom, so that was out. He felt the same about the kitchen, and he’d definitely feel guilty fucking up his landlord’s couch. That only left his spare bedroom, but bedsheets were easily changed. He left his front door unlocked and open. The sooner someone found him the better. No one wanted to move a body found two weeks in, and if he could be considerate about anything in his life, it would be towards the cleanup crew. 

His gin was half gone, and a sick part of himself felt proud of how high his tolerance was now. He’d leave with one achievement after all. 

It took him a few tries to figure out the handgun. The guy had told him how to load and unload the barrel, giving him instructions on everything from noise reduction to paperwork for concealed carry. He’d said it was for a course he was gonna take at the range on the other side of the city. Finally, he loaded it, and with the bottle in one hand, the gun in the other, he walked into the room. 

It all felt very casual. He would’ve thought killing yourself would be more dramatic than this, but all he felt was a slight apprehension and the crushing weight of existence. And the liquor, but for the past few months being drunk became his baseline.

He wondered if he should call his parents. Maybe he should leave a note? To be honest, there wasn’t much to say. Wasn’t that the saddest part? Here he was, about to put a barrel in his mouth, and he couldn’t even muster the words up for a note. 

He dropped his weight on the couch, eyes locked on the curl of his fingers around the trigger. He took one last mouthful of gin, feeling as it burned all the way down. He was ready. 

He looked up, and there was a man in the mirror. He dropped the gun.

Nothing could describe the electric terror that froze his entire body. He looked behind him, around the room, seeing nothing. He looked back, to where the man stood. He was in the mirror. Like, literally in the mirror. 

_ Fuck, I’m really losing it. _

He turned back to the man. The room and his own reflection disappeared, and the only visible apparition was the stranger. The guy was beaming, and his heart struggled to unlodge itself from his throat. He couldn’t move, his brain scrambling to process.

“Who are you?”

The man just smiled. He became unfrozen.

He ran to the bathroom, flipping on the faucet with too much force and assaulting his face with cold water. This mirror was clear, nothing but a bathroom and the reflection of a man who needed to get it together. He threw open the cabinet, the doors banging against the wall. His meds were on the top shelf, a thin layer of dust adorning the cap. He grabbed his pills, taking them dry.

He felt them slide down his throat, reminding him of the gin just a few minutes earlier. He put a hand on the marble countertop, steadying himself. Oh god. He’d almost killed himself. Fuck.

He stripped, and turned on the shower, throwing himself into the blistering spray. 

A sob broke free from his throat, and he felt himself crumple. Wailing, he clutched his stomach, feeling the weight of everything crash back down on him. The liquor, the money, the depression, the heartbreak, and the guilt. He’d never felt this sober, and the pressure in his chest threatened to swallow him whole. Feeling a little better about the noise now that the shower ran, he let himself truly cry.

It’d been a long time since he’d cried like this: letting out desperate, hiccupping sobs, his head in his palms. His chest was a vortex, sucking at his edges like a black hole. He kept crying, and the pure release of it made his head spin. He didn’t feel drunk anymore, and there was a squirming pathetic voice that nudged him from the inside, reminding him that the bottle of gin was still in the bedroom.

The bottle of gin was in the bedroom, but so was the gun, and not to mention the man living in his vanity. He couldn’t go in. Not now. The shower was cooling down, but he stayed curled up on the cheap tiles. He’d stopped the sobbing, but a steady stream of tears blurred his vision, and he wiped a stream of snot off his face into the spray. Crying had left him alone with the gaping hole, and he felt brittle and hollow. 

He still wanted to die. He really did, but with sobriety came clarity, and with clarity came fear. Holy shit. What the fuck would dying help? He felt like an idiot. He lifted his head from the ground, remembering. He’d seen someone in the mirror. His hands were shaking.

Even at his worst, he’d never seen something that hadn’t been there. What was wrong with him?

He shut off the shower, and let his body run on autopilot. Step out, towel off, walk to the bedroom and find something fresh to wear. What he hadn’t given away was tucked in the top drawer of the dresser that’d come with his flat. It felt oddly refreshing, putting on clean underwear, fresh jeans, and a shirt that didn’t smell of sweat and liquor. He even slipped on a pair of his fuzzy socks, and watched his toes wiggle through the fabric. If any day could call for it, today called for a pair of fuzzy socks. 

He left his room and stared bleary eyed at the guest door. He was terrified. He tried to breathe, wondering what he’d find. He needed to come back to satisfy his curiosity. Stomach tight, he stalked back into the room. He sucked in a breath and sat down on the bed opposite the vanity. The man stared back.

With a bizarre sense of surreality, he waved. The man waved back. 

He just looked like a normal guy, honestly. Brown hair, tanned skin, brown eyes. A button nose, strong jaw, freckles spotting his skin. Blue couldn’t stop staring.

“What the- what is this?” He asked, and the man mouthed something he couldn’t hear. 

“What?”

The guy rolled his eyes.

The mirror darkened, his reflection and the room around him swirling into mist. Only the man remained. Looking at him with specific intent, the man put up his palm. In his hand was a knife. He rested it in his hand.

“Stop it.” He reached out at the man, “don’t hurt yourself.”

The man ignored him, slicing through the first few layers of skin. He felt sick watching this, blood pouring down his arm. The man dropped the knife, dipping his fingers in blood.

With it he drew two runes on the mirror.

The man then pointed at him, as if to say,  _ your turn. _

“I-”

His phone rang, breaking the trance. He thought he’d turned it off, but it buzzed again. He answered it, stalking out of the room. Maybe he shouldn’t leave the ghost hanging. He supposed picking up like that was rude. But so was cutting yourself in his guest bedroom, so he called it even. His head pounded from his crying, but he croaked out a greeting.

“Hello?”

When the other line responded, he remembered why he had been avoiding the calls.

“Lou! Thank god!” 

It was her. He rubbed the palm of his hand into his forehead. He couldn’t deal with this.

“Hey, uh-”

She was crying on the phone. He could recognize it from a mile away. He sighed and she cut him off, halfway frantic.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve been worrying us sick- your parents called- I-”

“Stella, I really can’t talk right now.” He cut her off, wishing he could throw his phone across the room.

“No. Don’t you fucking dare. You’re scaring me, Lou. You need-”

He felt his anger swell at that, and a little part of his patience broke.

“You don’t get to tell me what I need, Stella! You fucking decided that.”

“Lou please-”

“If you must know: I’m fine.” If suicidal thoughts and hallucinations counted as fine, that is. “Don’t call me again and get the fuck out of my business!”

He slammed his thumb down, panting. She really knew how to pick the worst times. Feeling emboldened by his anger, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. He’d gotten this far. Besides, if talking to an apparition kept him from swallowing a bullet, he felt justified in following this madness.

He returned to the room, glaring at the man. 

“Are you real?”

The man nodded, his face blank. He gestured to the shapes he’d written on the surface. Right. The blood runes, or whatever.

“If I do this, will you tell me who you are?”

He got a nod.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

The guy shrugged. 

Suddenly struck by the reality of the situation, he laughed. Grabbing his stomach, he took gasping breaths. The guy didn’t look impressed, and that only made him burst into another round of giggles. 

“I guess I can’t. Fuck it, I’ve gone this far.” He gathered himself, “does it matter where?” He hummed, clamping down another fit.

The guy shook his head. There was a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

He chose the top of his left bicep, feeling a bit too squeamish to harm the delicate skin on his palms. Cutting was easier than he’d expected, probably because he’d always liked keeping his kitchen knives sharp. 

“Ah shit!”

He winced at the heavy sting that came after, but gathered some blood on his fingertips. The runes appeared in the mirror.

_ I’m probably making a huge mistake _ , he thought. But when had that stopped him before? He traced the runes, smearing the blood with sticky fingers. The cut had brightened his focus for a moment, but still hurt like a bitch.

The text disappeared, and the guy smiled.

“Fucking finally!” The guy exclaimed, and pounded on the glass from the inside with a holler. His voice was finally free.


	3. Chapter 3

He jumped back, and it just made the man smile more.

“Who are you?” 

“I think the real question should be: who the fuck are you?” the man gave him a curious once over. “Where is this place?”

“Lewis. And you-”

“Ugh, what a boring name. What year is it? Can you show me a newspaper or something? I’ve been fucking dying of boredom.” The guy tried to crane his neck, but frowned, only able to move so far.

“Help me out, Lewis. This mirror is cramped like you wouldn’t believe.”

The gun forgotten, he stood. The guy put his hands on the glass, and curious, he did the same. Their palms touched, but he felt nothing but cool glass. 

“Look, I know you got your whole pity party thing going on, but-”

“Are you real?” He took a look behind the dresser. Nothing. Just old wood. 

“Yes, I’m real, dumbass. I’ve already answered that.” The guy gestured to the gash on his arm, “now can we get back to it? You’re already bleeding. That’s step one.”

He looked down at the wound, and burst out laughing again. He’d cut himself and drawn shapes with his own blood like a goddamn finger painting. The guy’s annoyed look at his outburst made him start over.

“Oh god, I’m losing my mind.”

“If that’s the case there wasn’t much to lose.”

Lou squinted at the guy. He was shirtless, only showing shoulders up, and looked pretty normal: like the sort of guy you’d see on the street. 

“You’re just in my head,” he decided. And the guy rolled his eyes.

“For the last time, I’m real!” He turned around in frustration, then put both hands to the glass again, taking a breath.

“Look. I know that seeing someone trapped might seem crazy,”

Lou giggled again, but let the man continue.

  
  
“But I swear to god. I’m real. You’re not crazy.” the guy paused, “well, you probably are crazy, but not in this way. Got it?”

“Nah,” Lou leaned back against the bed, now convinced. “You’re just in my head.”

“Oh my god!” The guy exploded, his face turning into a snarl. He pounded his fist on the glass. “I’m real, you useless retarded piece of shit!” 

Lou could only smile.

“Yeah, you sound like me, so that proves it. What’s your name?” Lou hadn’t properly spoken to anyone in weeks. Even if it was just with himself, he appreciated the conversation.

“I don’t know,” the man responded, perplexed. Lou raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t know your own name?”

The guy ran an exasperated hand through his hair, turning away. 

“I don’t remember! I’ve tried.”

“Hmm,” Lou didn’t know how to respond, other than offering a, “that sucks.” A moment passed between them.

“Are you here to stop me from killing myself?” The words felt bitter coming out of his mouth, but he had to ask.

“That’s what you were doing? Jesus, dude. If you’re gonna shoot yourself, at least do it where I don’t have to see.”

“I didn’t know you were there!” Lou felt ridiculous, justifying himself to a specter. “Seriously, are you here to stop me from killing myself?”

“If I say yes, will you please let me out?” Another non-answer. 

“What does that involve, the whole letting you out thing?” Lou grabbed the bottle of gin from the floor, and the cork came off with a pleasant pop. The man in the mirror eyed the drink, letting his head rest against the glass. The gin burns, and Lou sighed. The situation felt manageable with a drink in his hand. 

“You have to order me to leave, but to fully let me out you’ll need a lot of blood. You’ll have to do it in a few stages. Or, if you can get yourself a chicken or small goat-”

“Wait, hold on, why all the blood?” He’d never felt the need to cut himself, and now his subconscious was asking for it. Sure, he might be suicidal, but he wasn’t into that emo shit. 

“You didn’t seem to mind before,” the man replied, gesturing to Lou’s arm. Lou looked away, embarrassed. 

“I was curious. I’m not eager to do it again.”

“Whatever’s keeping me here takes energy. You give me blood, and I can use it to follow whatever directions you give me.”

“What were the runes?”

“Runes? Those were instructions, asshole. They literally said, “speak” so I could actually get your attention. Clearly, you’re otherwise occupied.”

Lou ignored the jab.

“Why should I listen to you?”

The man broke into a broad smile.

“Because I can give you what you want. It’ll be a simple trade. You help me out a little, and I’ll help you out a lot!”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Oh c’mon! Everyone wants something. What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything!” Lou took another drink. It was true. Everything had gone grey and muffled, long before she left. 

“You seem to like booze. I can get you the good stuff. Higher than top shelf. What is that, gin? You ever had designer gin before?”

“Designer gin doesn’t exist.” Lou felt his energy fading. He was so tired. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

He got up, taking his bottle with him.

“Hey! Don’t go! Please!” The guy banged on the glass again, “Don’t you want something? Women? Cash?”

Lou shrugged. 

“Nah.” His stomach rumbled. Time to order more shitty food.

“Come on, don’t leave me in here! Please!”

Lou shut the door, and the man’s yelling became a muffled hum. There. Much better. 

He went about his day, and ordered Indian. The gin didn’t mix well, so he switched to beer.

He’d failed. Part of him was relieved, another furious. It was so simple, but he’d let himself get distracted. Hallucinations were new, but it wouldn’t matter what his brain tried to throw at him. You can’t hallucinate when you’re dead. 

There was something calming about his plan. It was all sorted out, and he just had to follow the steps. No girlfriend, no job, no furniture, no money, and just a simple task left to do. There was nothing else left. He’d gotten this far, and it was too late to turn back now. His bank account was empty, and it was either man up and finish the job, or rot on the streets once he inevitably got evicted. 

For now he just took a breath. He had his plan. The gun was still in the bedroom, waiting for him. There was always tomorrow.

The next day brought him back to the mirror. He couldn’t do it today, felt jittery from head to toe just at the thought of trying. He’d thrown the gun in the back of his almost-empty closet, and hiding it under a pair of dirty sweatpants had at least made the panic in his stomach from boiling over. So, he sat on his guest bed, nursing a glass of water and a hangover. The mirror showed nothing but his reflection, and he had a front row seat to his hair pasted to the grease on his forehead, and the sunken look in his eyes.

_Disgusting_ , his brain sneered. He couldn’t help but agree. 

“Hello? Anyone home?” He knocked on the glass, but the man didn’t appear. 

Hmm. Maybe yesterday had been a pocket of crazy. He knocked on the glass again.

“Scary ghost man? Hello?” Still nothing. Lou felt like an idiot, standing there talking to no one. Frustrated, he slammed his fist onto the vanity top.

“Right, blood,” he said to the empty room. The knife he’d used last time sat at the bottom of the sink. The others were strewn about the kitchen, similarly dirty. Cursing to himself, he threw everything into the dishwasher, filling it up with far too much soap, and running it. He trashed all the empty takeout boxes. If he was going to die, he’d leave the place spotless. He swore it. 

Cleaning up the counters turned into scrubbing them down with disinfecting soap, which turned into the need to vacuum and sweep the entire place top to bottom. That turned into dusting every surface; not that there were many left after selling the furniture. He set himself to the floors, sweeping and mopping the entirety of the entrance hall, then the tiles in his bathroom. He wiped down his mirrors (which were free of ghost people), and scrubbed the sink free of toothpaste and scum. The shower got a heavy helping of harsh detergent, and he alternated between scrubbing the bubbles into the tiles, and blasting them down with the showerhead. He used the same stuff for the toilet, and wiped everything down with a cloth afterwards. 

By the time he finished the clock on the microwave said 4:55, and his head felt foggy. The room spun with the smell of cleaning chemicals. His hands twitched, and the temptation of doing another round of scrubbing almost pulled him back to the bathroom. His dishwasher rang, breaking him out of it. 

Right. The knives. He returned to the guest room, holding the blade. It felt hot from the washing machine, almost too hot to hold. The buzzing panic was still rooted in his stomach, threatening to swell and overtake him at any moment, and he had to psyche himself up for a few minutes before he managed to actually cut deep enough.

He hissed, but it was done. Lou set the knife on the vanity and stood up. The cut was an inch below the first, which had just started to scab over. He dipped his fingers in the blood, putting them to the glass.

“Uh,” what was he supposed to draw? The mirror offered him no help. “Ghost man? I’m back.”

The blood remained on the mirror. He swiped his hand again and touched the gruesome handprint to the glass. “Uh, show yourself!”

The man appeared, and Lou startled, scrambling back. His mouth was pressed shut, and he looked expectantly.

“Right. Talk to me.”

The blood faded from the surface, and Lou sat back down on the bed. Part of him hadn’t expected it to work. The buzzing in him died down, not going away entirely, but quieted enough Lou felt he could actually take a free breath. 

“Ghost man? Seriously?”

Lou felt his cheeks redden. That had been a stupid thing to say. 

“Well what else am I supposed to call you? You’re the one who can’t even remember his own name.”

The man crossed his arms over his chest, his face twisting into a disappointed frown. 

“Low blow. Fine, Blue Lou, give me a name. It better be something good, though.”

“Blue Lou?” He asked instead. That was almost as bad as ‘Ghost Man’.

“Well it’s your whole thing, right? Being a sad sack of shit.” 

“Touche,” he shrugged. “If I’m Blue then you’re Red. We’ll make it colour themed.”

“Red,” Red tried out, then nodded, “it’s better than nothing.”

“I need to eat something,” Blue stated, feeling the hunger twist his stomach. “If I leave will you disappear?”

“It’ll take a while for me to run out of energy, but it’d be great if I could have another swipe.” The man looked hungry, in a way that made Blue’s stomach twist. But he complied, taking another cut and pressing it to the glass.

“I should be good now,” he said. “Thanks, man.”

Blue could feel the slight rush of the cut hit him. Despite the sting, cutting felt significantly easier when the high made the world shine. Feeling bold, he took another swipe, deeper this time. He watched the line turn pink, then scarlet. The beads of blood formed, filling the line in with dark red.

“Okay, knife-happy. Let’s cool it on the cutting.”

Blue raised an eyebrow, a bit self-conscious. 

“You complaining? I could stop altogether.” Red shook his head, raising his hands in defeat.

“Nope. No complaining here.”

“Good.” He took his keys from his pockets, flinging them up in the air and catching them. The world had a shimmer to it, and even the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window shone brighter. It reflected off the dusty floorboards, placing a brilliant sheen on the dust caught in its track.

He grabbed his coat on the way out. When opening the door, he realized his arm was still bleeding, dried blood sticking to the fabric of his t-shirt. He put the coat back on the rack.

After changing into a long sleeve shirt, dark enough to hide anything if he bled through, he headed out.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he’d grabbed enough pad thai for a few days, and came back to his apartment, the sun had set. He flicked on the light to Red’s room and set everything down onto the bedside table before jumping up onto the bed. He’d also had the foresight of buying a fresh bottle of gin and a new six pack. He tucked into his noodles for a moment, chewed, then pointed at the man with his chopsticks. 

“I’ll tell you what - if you answer my questions, I might think about doing what you say.”

The man tilted his head, incredulous. “How is that a promise? You’ll think about it? Please.”

“Do you have any other options? Besides, I wanna see what I’m getting into first.”

The man’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Lewis took the pause to eat more noodles. He had a better appetite today, even if the food tasted like cardboard. It was edible, and that was enough.

“I’ll do you one better: we’ll trade off questions. Then we owe each other nothing. I have a feeling you’ll change your mind.”

“How are you so sure?” Lewis mumbled, his mouth full. He shovelled more noodles in, and part of him wanted to gag, the texture felt like mushy worms squiggling around in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow.

“Because people like you always need something. I just have to figure out what it is.”

Red was eyeing the noodles, cooling on his lap. It must feel shitty, watching someone eat without any way to eat yourself. Blue could sympathize, even if he had the opposite problem. Red noticed he’d been caught staring, and his eyes flicked away, fixed on Blue’s face. Blue tried a piece of tofu, which felt like a dish sponge. He choked it down, clearing his throat.

“How can I trust you’ll tell the truth?”

“You don’t have to trust anything. Just make a pact with me, and we’ll know for sure,” he said, as if Blue had any idea what that meant. At his confused face, Red rolled his eyes. “I’ll go through the details.”

“And the details are…?” Blue swallowed his mouthful, deciding he was finished. He’d barely made a dent in the serving, but closed the styrofoam container. He placed it by his side. 

“Similar to the spells you’ve already done. Get some blood and say some words and kabam! We’re done.”

How did his subconscious come up with this shit? Spells? 

“That is such horse cock,” he laughed, and Red’s eyebrows knit together. “Spells don’t exist. Magic isn’t real.”

“Yes it is,” Red said, clearly impatient.

“No, it’s not,” he shook his head. “As much as you deny it, I know you’re just a part of my mind.”

He took a long look up and down the man. Well, as much as he could look at, anyways. The mirror cut things off just below the shoulders. He was sure he’d never seen this guy before. If his brain had decided to apparate some part of him, why this guy? He looked normal. His teeth were white, but not too white. He looked thin, a regular build with the slightest amount of muscle around his shoulders. His skin was smooth, free of wrinkles, but also missing baby fat around the jaw; he was in his late twenties, most likely. 

“Though which part of my mind you’re from, I’m not sure. A fucked up part, probably.”

“Look,” said Red, who rested a hand on the glass. “If you don’t believe I’m real, then what’s the harm in doing the spell? Maybe I’m some fucked up form of therapy, right? So you can have a real one-on-one with your own head.”

“You’re not gonna convince me not to die, you know.”

Red threw his hands up. Fingernails cut short, even his hands were ordinary. Blue would have suspected his brain was projecting the straight man - a voice of reason, but he immediately chucked the theory away. This guy suggested things that were far from reasonable. 

“And I won’t try! Just help me out, and maybe we can do some fun shit before you,” he made a whistling sound, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “Ya know. Ever had a bucket list?”

He could admit, even to himself, that he appreciated Red’s casual talk of suicide. He’d seen far too many people close to him try and fail to hide their panic, fear, pity, and anger when he’d even hinted at the concept. Red just blew past it, like another boring thing about Blue’s boring life. And the need for suicide was a part of his life, and had been since he was fourteen. Just a small voice in his head, reminding him it would always be an option.

I’m a lot louder now, his brain piped in. Blue focused back on the conversation. 

“Not really,” Blue admitted. Feeling more comfortable, he pondered the question. Not much had happened in his life. He hadn’t even left the country. “I guess I’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle.”

It was a lame example, but Red ran with it.

“See? If you’re gonna die anyways, might as well have some fun on the way out. You seem like an uptight guy.”

Blue didn’t deny it.

“Well, I can show you how to party. Really party! Give yourself a break and go out with a bang.”

Blue never had much fun at parties. Loud noises made him jumpy, and the throngs of people pushed together made it impossible to avoid being touched. More than once he’d ended up hyperventilating and dry heaving in the bathrooms. And other people’s bathrooms were rarely clean.

“How do I let you out?”

“I need a place to go, so either you find me someone, or,” his eyes glinted, “you let me inside you.”

_ Here we go again _ , Blue thought. Rather than bring up another argument, he went with his curiosity.

“Like, possession inside me?”

Red made a so-so motion with his hand.

“Eh. Not exactly, I can’t do anything without permission. I’m just along for the ride, you know?”

“You can’t do anything without permission?”

“No. I do what I’m allowed to do.”

“That makes no sense.”

“What part?”

“Every part! All parts! None of this makes any sense.” He chucked the chopsticks in the trash, scooping up the container, stalking out. He put the leftovers in the fridge and filled a glass full of water, just in time for his phone to ring again. He leaned his head against the cool chrome finish of his refrigerator. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Lewie! How are you?”

“Oh.” He watched his breath fog up the surface. Luckily, the fridge didn’t reflect enough to allow Red to travel. “Hi, Mom. I’m good thanks. What about you?”

His mom ignored the question, barreling into the interrogation.

“I heard about your break-up. Lewie, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I know, I’m sorry. Thing’s have been super busy and I’ve been wanting to call you.”

“And what about your job?” She asked, “When were you going to tell me you’re unemployed? I had to find out from Martha’s mother.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“You might have to move out of your apartment. If you’re not making city wages you might as well pay for something in the suburbs.”

He felt tired, like gravity had tripled through the course of this conversation.

“Blue, what the fuck?” Red’s voice came from the bedroom, then the bathroom. Blue pinched the bridge of his nose. For a voice in his head, you’d think he’d be less annoying. 

His reality shattered when his mom stopped the interrogation brigade.

“Is someone over with you? I can call back if it’s a bad time.”

Blue’s stomach dropped. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, could she hear him?

“Uh, what?”

“It’s okay. I think it’s good you have someone there with you.”

“No, sorry, I left the TV on.”

His mother hmmed, and he tried his best to keep his voice steady.

“I gotta work on more resumes,” he lied, “I’ve been looking at a bank job near the water.”

She gasped with pride. She sounded so happy. He couldn’t even feel the guilt. He felt shell shocked. She could hear him.

“Well, I’m so proud of you for bouncing back like this, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.” His mouth said, on autopilot. 

“And you’re sure you’re not struggling? Like a few years ago?”

_ Oh, if only she knew. _

“Nah. I’m taking my meds and I’m managing everything. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“Just let us know if you need anything. It’s okay to be taking this breakup hard, ya know?”

“I know, Mom.”

“Okay, Lewis. Love you so much!”

“Love you, too.”

He hung up, and had the urge to take a running leap out of the nearest window. His eyes flicked to the guest bedroom. 

_ He’s real. He’s real. He’s realrealrealrealreal _

“Blue?” He heard Red’s voice call from inside, snapping him from his breakdown. He didn’t dare respond, panic choking him. He needed to find someone who knew about this shit. He couldn’t deal with this alone. He grabbed his coat and fled, knowing exactly where to go.


End file.
